


Disintegration

by BethNoir



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Angry Sex, Bill Haydon and his Bullshit, Choking, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Emotional Baggage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethNoir/pseuds/BethNoir
Summary: Spring 1963Bill wakes up with a monstrous hangover, remembers what set off his behavior the night before, and why he always winds up at Jim's flat.





	Disintegration

Bill woke up with a hideous case of cottonmouth, and the feeling someone was pinching him very hard behind the eyes. What he would give to be able to drink like he was in his salad days again. The sun was already up and his eyelashes laced with sleep, keeping him from opening them to the dreadful morning light, a rare appearance this early into spring. It was the one courteous part of his body unlike the rest of him, which ached all over like he’d been out on the pitch the night before. Somewhere in the flat, the wireless was making a horrible racket and as he rolled over, he wondered what sent him off so much he went through a bottle and out the other side so hard he couldn’t recognize whose bed he was in. What happened yesterday? And then it came to him.

Profumo. Of all of the bloody things. The man was still denying he would resign to anyone who would listen and those who hadn’t even asked, but the way Control had been bellowing down the halls about it, there was probably only a week left on him. The usual bureaucratic fannying would follow, with interrogations for each government employee about their private lives that were so personal he was surprised they didn’t also ask him to cough. How could anyone be so sloppy with something that stupid. They retreated to their clubs, occasionally showed up for Parliament, and sent Bill and Jim and all their peers around the world for deals that might bear treasure but usually did nothing but remove them from their own lives. Just enough to remind them they served the Crown and they were not their own masters. It reminded him of why England made him so furious, and why he drank to forget it. 

He once had a night where he hadn’t been home in ages, having been sent to assist the transition in Washington with the boy king Kennedy, and spent the better part of an evening moaning to Jim about Patsy Cline, that horrid woman who had the voice of a frog, the face of a matron, and how the Americans were ruining everything. All because Jim had mentioned liking “I Fall to Pieces” as it came on over the pub’s jukebox. He’d been so soused he persisted the subject all evening as Jim tolerated it over his only pint, before sending Bill home alone. When all Bill was trying to moan about was how cross he was it’d been almost two years apart and no matter who took his bed or the seat beside him for drinks, he wasn’t whole without his other half. And the Americans were ruining everything.

When the horrid woman had died in a plane crash earlier that year, Bill saw her albums in the Oxford Street HMV, in a gaudy, capitalist attempt at a memorial. Nonetheless, he bought a copy of _Sentimentally Yours_ , had a boy deliver it to Jim’s flat, and passing him in the hall on his way to Control’s, only told him, “oh Jim, you’ll want the second side. Number two.” And went on his way, letting everyone around them think it was work related, and Jim utterly perplexed what he was on about until he was home to pick up the mail. Bill wasn’t sure if he was more pleased from how clever he was in his teasing, or how much of the day it would take up in Jim’s mind and leaving him with a reward for it. Or maybe it was making his parentless chum so very happy he paid attention to these things. And the beautiful smile that would uncurl on his face as he listened to her sing, “you belong to me.”

Whatever the music was coming from the wireless, it was worse than Cline, and Bill’s theory was correct that the Americans were ruining everything as good English boys fought like mods at a shoe sale over who could sound more like a warbling pack of California surfers. Half the year was plenty of time for the country to have had enough of Cliff Richard, and also Gerry Masden, and hopefully come to the conclusion they were both dreadful. He groaned when he rotated his shoulder, and rolled over again to turn away from the sun.

Just as he’d settled on a friendlier side of the bed, the volume on the racket lowered considerably, and heard only the scrambling of the dial changing stations, before settling on something much quieter. He couldn’t hear the words, only the dulcet tone of the BBC3 broadcaster. And then, strings.

Stravinsky. _Orpheus_. And Bill remembered everything.

 

Madeline told him to get out. She was crying because he made her. Well, he hadn’t made her. She just got so hysterical about everything it was her own fault she cried. He was just trying to be honest with her. The usual trip round the clubs and pubs yielded nothing except the usual delicate lilies cross with him for being experienced with the world and not at all because he was old and tiresome in his crassness.

He wanted someone to fight with him like all of England’s weakness was done against him. Like it was a personal matter. Wanted someone to take its shape so he could rail against the years of public school and class bollocks that turned him round and round until he fell dizzy into the land left after the war where there was nothing left of empire and structure but a government scrambling in the weeds, passing the parcel back and forth between Labour and Tories. It was like his inheritance was the Citadel of Byrsa, only for him to emerge from university to find he was left the ruins open to the sky and full of French tourists. Only one person was a worthy opponent for him.

“Pleasant evening?” Bill asked. Jim shrugged as his uninvited, but always welcome guest puttered about the entry like it was his first time over.

“All right.”

“Get up to any trouble?” Bill smiled like he was hiding all the Cheshire Cat’s teeth behind his lips. Jim shrugged again.

“Went out with a few mates.” Of course he would. Why wouldn’t Jim have a life outside the Inseperables, or as Connie Sachs once cackled over too many pints, “Cary and Randolph”. There was something unsteady about Jim’s usual glacial mannerisms, and Bill realized he was probably as drunk as him. One glance down and he saw the glass in hand, hanging by his leg.

 _“I didn’t know you had any,”_ is what the sharp little voice in him wanted to say and oh he was going to be that kind of drunk tonight. He already made Madeline upset and provoked a row with someone who kept insisting he wasn’t for rent, but Jim was the one going to get the brunt of it. The memory of his earlier evening slipped away until it would emerge again later. He smiled and put on his best self.

“Anyone I know?” Bill didn’t wait for him to answer. “Fancy another?” Jim leaned up from the wall and followed Bill into the kitchen as he made himself at home.

The flat was in Soho of all places, when Jim probably would have been happier in a shelter-half on the moor away from anybody unless Bill came round. But the rent was cheap, it was in the back of the building with constant rotating tenants, leaving no-one long to supervise his residency or guests, and plenty of music at odd hours and strange volumes. Bill knew firsthand Jim could sleep through an air raid, so the noise was useful when he wanted to be noisy and Jim didn’t want questions in the morning. He could barely tolerate it when the landlady tried to invite him for tea and bring up the age-old subject of her unattached daughter. If his flat was bugged, the Neighbours must think Jim took his holidays in Brighton with the rest of the Teddy Boys. It was a fucking brilliant cover and Bill felt threatened Jim had been this clever without him being the one to inspire him.

“Leamas is dead.” That wasn’t why he was drunk, but it was still news. Bill looked back to acknowledge it, but tutted softly as he poured a glass for himself with the gin Jim knew to keep stocked for his visits.

“Is that what the scalphunters needed a piss-up over? What did he do this time?”

“Something about a woman. Helping the East Germans.”

“That’s a load.”

“Smiley came round.” Bill turned and made a funny noise of marvel.

“George come down to share a bottle with the plebs. Is it Saturnalia already?”

“He couldn’t tell us what happened. But he liked Leamas.”

“Load of nonsense. George loves his broken things. Look at Ann, for Chrissake. Next he’ll be raising a glass to Profumo.”

“Profumo’s a fucking disgrace.”

For once it occurred to Bill that Jim might be just as furious about the Secretary’s appalling display as he was, and how infuriating it was to have their time and lives wasted on a bunch of knobs who could barely put their pants on forwards. If you were going to put your hands in the kitty, be sure your neighbor’s aren’t in there too. What was the old saying from the War? Lions as lead by mules? God, it almost reminded him of Control.

Jim’s neighbor was of the opinion this was the perfect time to listen to Link Wray records and light another spliff.

“Speaking of George,” Bill said and he didn’t know why he was bringing this up except maybe Jim was the only person he could be candid with about it. “I had a disastrous meeting before my last trip to Washington. Had that bloke Steggie round the flat and he was being a complete pillock about going home, so I had to bring him with me to No. 9.” That finally got a reaction from Jim. The very idea of Bill bringing a Chelsea boy into the home of George and Ann Smiley made his eyebrows arch so high they looked like they were escaping to help Jim’s thinning scalp. Satisfied with his reaction, Bill scuttled the rest of the details and drank again. “The look on his face. It was like I’d let the boy have a shit in the middle of the carpet, he was so perturbed.”

“Can’t imagine why.” That glib tone made Bill bristle.

“Well, I very well couldn’t have left him in the Alvis. He’d have thrown a fit in the street or taken it for a week-end with the rest of his awful friends to France and left me to the Tube.” Bill finished his drink, but not his rant. “Honestly, George is so repressed he probably doesn’t take his suit off to bathe. It’d explain the wrinkles. Or why they don’t have children. Ann’s not entirely ugly. He probably thought the boy was ornamental, and the only vulgarity was because I hadn’t thought to bring a girl.”

“Couldn’t say. I barely know the man,” said Jim. Which was true. He couldn’t join in the gossip the way the north London office could, and there was plenty in Brixton to chatter about. Bill had to steer the attention back towards him.

“Anyway, had a word with the landlord to see if the boy could perhaps find work in Dagenham, or preferably back in Johannesburg where he belongs. Meanwhile, I’m still invited to the soiree she’s throwing for George’s sixtieth. He’ll love that.” Bill leaned against the counter. Jim had a queer look on his face. “What?”

“Connie Sachs.”

“What about her?”

“She asked if we were going to Eeyore’s birthday party. Didn’t know what she meant.” Bill was stunned and then burst out laughing. The thought of short, fat Smiley in those lumpy grey suits; he was cross he didn’t think of it first.

“She meant the both of us?”

“Yes.”

“Oh Christ. All he needs is the tail.” Bill fell apart laughing again. Jim was smiling. Smiling politely. Bill rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jim didn’t want to fight. Bill did.

“Come off it.”

“What do you want?” Jim asked, with a weary tone suggesting sobriety was creeping on him, by the rasp in his throat and the ache in his head. Bill looked square at him over his glass, reaching for any trace of juniper in the icy water that remained.

“You know what I want.” He said in that low voice that always made Jim squirm.

“Did Madeline turn you out?” This time Bill squirmed, and not for the reason Jim normally did. He stood up straight and put his glass down.

“What’s got into you?” Bill wanted Jim to yell at him or hit him, but he was still so quiet. There could be a tempest stewing in him, but he wouldn’t give Bill an inkling of a breeze. Was he spoiling for a fight? The glower was enough and Bill rolled his eyes again

“Madeline went off because I didn’t want to go to her mother’s tomorrow,” that was a half-truth, “And I don’t know what’s gotten into the new barman at The Colony Room,” it certainly wasn’t Bill anymore, “but I just can’t have it. I should settle my account and let Muriel flounder. Awful woman.” He wasn’t at all cross the twitchy-eyed rogue he had his eye on was accosted by Bacon, the most abominable of painters, and the collective had decided they’d had their fill of the nark from Cambridge who’d been slumming it with the bohemians.

“You don’t have to go to George’s fête if you don't want to,” said Bill. “I hardly think anyone would notice. He’s an awful bore. No wonder Ann’s worked her way through half of London she’s started to bark up the family tree.”

“While you do the other half and meet her in the middle.” Jim took a sip from his glass. He _was_ spoiling for a fight. Bill was scandalized and hardly knew what to say back. Jim gave him a defiant look that told him they both knew exactly what Bill wanted to say. And he let slip the dogs of war.

“Well, God knows why you keep the light on for me.” Bill snipped.

“And all His creatures know exactly why you still turn up.” Jim fought with his hands with everyone else, but he’d learned to use his words with Bill and the dotty old painter felt like he’d been knocked out and on his back. Bill wanted an easy target to take his words, and Jim’s riposte reminded him he was a house cat trying to scrape with a Tom. God, he was getting hard at the thought of it.

“Is that so?” Bill was struggling to keep his composure so the blood rushing to his groin would rush back to his brain and he could think of something pithy to throw back at him. He sidled up to Jim, who didn’t even flinch as Bill took his time drinking up every inch of him.

Jim wouldn’t touch him unless Bill touched him first. Initially it was his shyness, and Bill took it for granted time and time again as Jim was encouraged to think Bill only wanted him if he acted on it. But tonight Jim was making him work for it. He hadn’t seen this look on him in years. Jim was angry.

Age and drink worked against Bill in a way that made the undergraduates charmed by what they thought was panache, and anyone his age knew for desperation. The only ones who did like it were the same sad sacks as him trying to reclaim their youth. Tonight he came to Jim expecting his arms to be open and his mouth to be eager, but instead they were crossed and fixed and he realized Jim was rarely what he thought in his head. His unwavering love was something he sneered at, but never wanted to unchain himself from. And seeing Jim unimpressed with his usual display made Bill so hard from want he thought he was in his twenties again. How desperately he needed Jim to love him.

“Jim…” Bill reached for his hand and Jim swatted him away. Over twenty years of unfaithful matrimony, and he could read Jim like Heraclitus. Only he understood the subtleties and if Jim wanted him to go, he would have done nothing. Bill smiled and chewed on his lip. God, he was being such a shit. Bill leaned in to kiss him, exhaling his gasp with a suddenness to remind Jim of the taste of him.

Jim tried to walk away. Bill grabbed his wrist, but Jim just as deftly slipped out of his grip and pinned him to the wall. It hurt in a way it wouldn’t have in his youth, and the reminder of time made him reach for Jim’s waist, only catching the side of his shirt in his fingers. There was a furious look in his eyes, but also that familiar dizzy whirlpool Bill always fell into, and it reminded him how much Jim needed this too.

Bill seized a handful of Jim’s shirt, pulled him into his arms, and kissing him roughly with the scratch of stubble and the stink of gin. Jim’s hand clenched in his shirt, but he kissed him back, matching his aggression. Bill grabbed his arse, forcing Jim to stay flush against him and feel how hard he was through his trousers, until Jim wrenched himself free and shoved Bill towards the bedroom.

Jim threw him on the bed and held Bill down with his knees and the strength from his core. His thighs were still as thick as the first time they’d opened up for him, but nowhere near as nervous as that first encounter. The strength of his body in spite of his age was a reminder that unlike Bill, who still fancied himself an artist with his paint box full of dried up tubes of French Vermilion, Jim did the bloody work. 

They kissed and rutted like they were back in uni instead of two middle-aged men on the eve of their fifties. All that kept their decrepit joints from protesting was Jim drunk on lust and rage and frustration from decades of Bill’s fucking moodys that stayed beautifully concealed in the office and unspooled in the privacy of Jim’s flat. While Bill, was just drunk, and maybe a little needy, as the only person left in England who still drank gin except for the royal matriarchs. Jim thrust his pelvis against Bill’s and the middle-aged poseur, as Steggie once called him, leaked through his trousers as he felt Jim’s erection. He still knew, after all this time, exactly what Jim wanted.

“How long could you stand it with those fishwives in Brixton before you had to leave?” Bill gasped in his ear as Jim suckled his neck and pulled at himself in his trousers. “How many times have you tried to come thinking of fucking one of those pathetic little pikies from Control’s campsite? Or do you come home and think of me, as your prick gets harder and hotter, needing me to come by and suck you off-“ He stopped when Jim grabbed him by the throat so he would-

“Stop…” Jim snarled. _Fucking talking._ Bill finished in his head. Bill could make him come undone so beautifully and he looked at Jim with such want, it finally gave Jim a moment to work his belt off and his trousers down without ever breaking gaze with Bill’s pale blue eyes, who wanted to watch him stew in those lovely brown eyes. How strong he still was after all these years, and how the only reason he undid Bill’s trousers and pull out his cock was for how much better it would feel bringing himself off against his selfish lover’s skin; Bill’s own orgasm be damned.

This is what Bill loved. How he could bare his soul naked before him, the only thing more vulnerable than his body, and Jim could take it and make the beating furious thing be still.

Jim took them both in hand, running his thumb along the tips of their pricks, dragging precome over the soft electric-sensitive skin until enough oozed out to move his hand up and down. If he was uncomfortable from dryness or need he wouldn’t try to show it, and he certainly didn’t care if Bill was uncomfortable. But it wasn’t long into his strokes and pulls that he felt that rush. The anger in him softened and his grip on Bill’s neck loosened and slowly moved up the back of his neck to hold his face in hand and run his thumb along his bottom lip, tracing the place where his lips and prick had been claimed so many times before by this first person to ever have them. He didn’t want to show it, but he knew how bad he needed to. Bill closed his lips on Jim’s thumb and sucked, boring his eyes into Jim’s soul.

Jim let go and held Bill’s face to kiss him and it was his turn to fall apart, pressing his body flush against Bill’s, his prick shoved against Bill’s soft belly, drooling along it as he thrust into his skin. Jim gasped and Bill took over for them, Jim pulling away only to spit a large gob of saliva onto Bill’s hand. It was a cheap solution instead of lubricant, but it didn’t matter now. Bill rubbed it over his slit and Jim’s, making his beautiful silent lover moan if only for a moment. His pull was faster, not as strong as Jim’s, but he needed this. Bill pulled him in to kiss him and whisper love and filth to this gorgeous titan.

They’d won the war, but lost their country. The golden glow of empire faded into austerity, rations books, and clearing out to make room for the Americans who didn’t know what any of the buttons did, while the Crown traded power for profit. Bill was so sick of it, but only Jim could look at all the ruin around them and figure how to make his garden grow. He got to make England his own and Bill wished he could love it the way Jim did. When fidelity returned to Bill and he remembered his vows of “I love you” and other vulgar statements in the rush during drink or after orgasm when he was in pieces in Jim’s hands and when he dearly truly meant it. That was when he felt sick about Karla and the Neighbours and the cheated way he wanted to get back the world he was promised, while Jim just did the work and put the pieces back together by carrying on. He couldn’t stand it.

Jim’s hands were wrapped under Bill’s head and he pulled him in for such a deep and desperate kiss, Bill felt his legs go numb as he felt his balls flush against Jim’s and the hot rolling soft flesh against flesh that finally brought him off all over his shirt, coming noisily and hungry, moaning into Jim’s open mouth like the noise of this emotional weakness was an apology, and the stains that would appear on his shirt the sign of his love. His hand slowed and he let his prick fall out of hand, but Jim was still heavy eyed and sweating and at that brink. Bill made himself grip Jim tighter and thrust his hand down onto him as Jim leaned on Bill’s shoulders to stay upright. Bill kissed him and said the words they both needed to hear.

“I think of you,” Bill confessed. “Every time. Every friend or stranger. Every fucking time. It’s all that brings me off. All that keeps me going because I can’t have you every moment of every day. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and I can’t stand it, Jim. I can’t stand it. You’re all I’ve ever wanted-” And with a sharp cry, Jim came in Bill’s hands, the hot and slippery come drenching Bill’s fingers as he kept jerking on him until Jim shoved his hand away, his skin and spirit were so sensitive from Bill’s emission of body and soul.

Jim kept leaning on Bill’s shoulders as they caught their breath, and he knocked his head against his, breathing in what Bill breathed out, like the only air in the room was from what the other one gave. He sat up as Bill fell back against the pillows. Jim got up and went to the toilet, and Bill fell asleep.

He woke up once when he felt his shirt being unbuttoned, and realized in half-sleep, Jim was taking his clothes off and running him down with a flannel. He drifted off when Jim threw the top sheet over his naked body, knowing he’d overheat with the duvet. He woke up again, awhile later, when the bed shifted as Jim settled in next to him.

Wray’s guitar was still screaming in the flat next door, ready for a rumble.

 

Madeline would have come squealing into the room with apologies for waking him up and would he like breakfast and how he was so wicked the night before. Whoever he found at the pub would be gone by now, smoking without a window open, or moaning about needing cab fare or more to stay quiet. Only one person would know the noises he made upon waking, and to turn the radio to something he’d want to hear. What fortune this morning the BBC had chosen the same piece Jim would have thrown on the Dansette to say he was sentimentally his.

He shifted again, rubbing the sleep from his eyes so only his hangover kept him prostrate. 

He heard footsteps coming towards the bedroom, the only sound from the squeak of the floorboards and the soft scuff of trainers upon them. Bill wanted to crawl out the window he was so mortified Jim would see him like this. He’d seen all his ugliness the night before, and countless nights before that, and in the morning Bill had to be aware of it. He put his head back and pretended to be asleep, about as convincing an act as whenever Jim tried to lie.

Jim was in grey trackpants and an old Liverpool shirt he’d rather repair than replace. He stopped as he fiddled with the strap on his watch, and Bill felt the light soften as Jim closed the curtains with scarcely a sound. It was such a tenderness Bill could have wept, to his embarrassment. He opted to roll over in an admission he was awake. Jim sat beside him and carded his fingers through his hair, like he was persuaded Bill was ill and had to stay home from school. 

“You usually go much earlier,” said Bill.

“Needed a lie-in. I don’t bounce back the way I used to.”

Even if Jim hadn’t torn Bill to pieces, or they’d opted not to drink themselves to a stupor for the sorry state of their country, he felt it in his bones. They were so very old and Oxford still felt like it was only yesterday, as though they’d had their furious encounter in Bill’s dorm with dry paintings stacked against the wall, instead of Jim’s spartan flat with the furniture and dishes all acquired from the charity shops, most befitting a middle aged man who was hardly home.

The pale light of morning filtered through the cheap curtain and Jim’s thin hair, creating half a halo along his crown. It made Bill want to paint again. There was a month in Oxford when Bill had persuaded Jim to model for him, but every session was a complete disaster since having Jim lay naked before him always resulted in the charcoal and paper being thrown aside. Now Bill wanted to paint him in his jumper as he cleaned his hiking boots. To capture the beautiful domesticity of someone who’d loved him for thirty years. Longer than most marriages, and enough lives.

This was all worth it. And Bill finally felt bliss from just being with him. The dread that usually came from the aftermath of his behavior or the impending yearning for someone new and young scarcely made a sound in his mind. There was Jim and love and everything was perfect.

“Popped round the launderette. Couldn’t send you home in my clothes,” said Jim.

“Oh?”

“You’d be swimming in them. Look like you were dressed in an older man’s suits.” 

“I think you’ll find I’m one curry away from being able to fill them out. You are a dear for not mentioning it. Or that I’m seven months older than you.”

They laughed. He could talk for ages. Find endless ways to make Jim laugh and think and hang on his every word like he used to, but all it would do was delay Jim going out for his run. When he shifted his weight to get up, Bill grabbed his hand. Jim looked concerned.

“Stay awhile. Don’t go yet.” Bill felt so very helpless and needy after these nights, even when he wanted everything Jim gave him. Even the kind and understanding smile he gave him now, as he sat next to Bill, held his face, and kissed him softly.

“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And before Bill could plead again to stay with him and never leave, Jim was up and out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Russian-Novel-Length Notes (Because FF.Net Habits Die Hard):
> 
> Story inspired by wondering why Bill was in such a panic to get Jim back alive when having Jim dead would shut up any rumor about their history and accelerate the discrediting of Control’s state of mind. Always understood they were lovers, probably exes on amenable terms given Bill’s slutting it up around the planet, but after doing the math and finding out they fell in love forty years ago at uni and Bill was still doing all this for Jim, it shook me and confirmed Bill, in spite of his utterly shit behavior, was completely in love with Jim.
> 
> It was tricky writing from Bill’s perspective because Smiley is so circumspect and particular in all his dealings, I couldn’t see how Bill wasn't an emotional mess in his personal life when he’d always been putting on a front with George, and the bits of his life Smiley was picking up on were, as the youts say these days, pretty fucking extra.
> 
> I figured Jim loved the authority figure in Bill having not had that growing up parentless, and Bill got all the nurturing and unconditional love he never got from his family through Jim.
> 
> Attempted to get London in the spring of 1963 correct, but as I am a hopeless American who can barely follow what the hell’s going on in _Another Country_ , let alone modern programmes, I opted for this part and will write the other bit about their time at Oxford later.
> 
> Francis Bacon met George Dyer at The Colony Room, but the version he tells is more interesting. Do yourselves a favor and watch _Love Is The Devil_. I think Bill would have chatted up Dyer (either how he really looked or as a young brunette Daniel Craig) and I especially think Bill is the type to still call himself a painter when he hasn’t finished, or even started new work in years, only to blame it on his busy schedule for the Circus.
> 
>  
> 
> Playlist:  
> “Orpheus” Igor Stravinsky  
> “You Belong to Me” Patsy Cline  
> “Rumble” Link Wray  
> “Shotgun” Jr Walker and the All Stars (didn’t drop until 1965, but I was listening to it for the fuck scenes because there is a limited amount of fuck music from the early 60s)  
> “Disintegration” The Cure (source of the title, a damn great song and album, and perfectly captures Bill and Jim’s relationship)


End file.
